Posts Tagged ‘corporation’

Lady GaGa’s new album The Fame Monster is an album I took a long time to come around to, but I have finally learned to appreciate its merits and its songcraft a lot more than that of The Fame. I still think that Lady GaGa is somewhat gimmicky and repetitive, but the talent is evident in the music and I really like even “Speechless” (which I couldn’t stand to listen to for the first couple of months). Lead single “Bad Romance” may repeat elements of “Poker Face” and “Paparazzi”, but I love the song and there’s a certain cinematic element (I’m talking beyond that of the Hitchcock references in the lyrics). So when I am listening to / singing along to the songs, I imagine performing it and slowly but surely, a whole storyline began to unfurl in my head – so I thought it would be fun to get that down on this blog for you all so you can get a little taste of how my creative brain works 😉

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Intro

Video fades in on an office scene for some sort of Soviet / Eastern-European corporation. Two very big, very important looking men are sat at a conference table in the centre of the screen having an argument and barking into mobile phones in Russian. In the back left corner of the screen sits a handsome man behind a desk, wearing a grey designer suit and thick, black-rimmed glasses, reading a set of papers intently. In the back right corner of the screen sits Me, also in a black designer suit and glasses, typing furiously on a desktop computer. After an intense conversation, the big-wig sat on the right of the table stands up, clearly frustrated, and walks over to me and barks a string of orders at me. I stop typing, exasperated, stand up and look my boss dead in the eye. Without another word, I pick up my Gucci shoulder bag from the floor, take off my glasses (never breaking gaze with my boss), put on a set of huge black Prada sunglasses and walk out of the office – I have apparently quit. As I walk out, the other secretary-guy looks at me in shock / awe.

Shot of me walking out of a faceless skyscraper, half-running as I hit the street.

Back to office, the other guy frantically grabs his papers, collects his back and runs off after me. Both of the Russian CEOs look on in shock, then after a beat begin barking into their phones once more as servants bring them tea / vodka / some unidentifiable drink in a steaming clear square glass mug.

Shot of me walking purposefully down the street as music begins to play. Cut with shots of my peer trying to catch me up, running after me, dropping papers and having to stoop to pick them up as pedestrians crowd around him. Slow motion – a tear begins to fall from his eye. Intercut with me running up the stairs to my flat, getting changed, putting on new clothes: shiny, black, designer, silver jewellery. As I turn around to go out the door, presumably for drinking and dancing, my colleague is there. We look at each other: close up on his face, on my face. Another tear falls from his eye. I close my eyes slowly. He kisses my cheek. I move my lips to his ear and whisper something. Fade out…

You know that I want you
And you know that I need you
I want it bad
A bad romance

The camera spins around disorientingly to reveal a dark mirrored ceiling, green laser beams shooting here and there, people in various states of undress and sobriety dancing, drinking, shouting, kissing, fumbling, conversing. Slow motion of a cocktail that contains coke falling on the floor intercut with my colleague / boyfriend standing by a booth, looking anxious. As the glass hits the floor and the liquid spills out, cut to a scene of me in a bathroom staring hard at the mirror in an accusatory manner. Close in on my eyes (wearing blue contacts). I lip synch the words “I want your love”, then strut out of bathroom and grab boyfriend’s hand, who smiles.

1st chorus

I want your love and
I want your revenge
You and me could write a bad romance
I want your love and
All your lover’s revenge
You and me could write a bad romance

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh

Caught in a bad romance
Ra ra-ah-ah-ah

Roma roma-ma
GaGa
Oh la-la
Want your bad romance

We make our way through the club, pushing our way through the crush of people unwilling to give way. Close up on our linked hands, my set lips, his eyes looking to me. As we walk past, slowly each member of the crowd’s head turns to watch us pass by. We stumble out of the club into the cool night air, the sky pitch black. Limousines line the pavement and there is a queue of important looking businessmen, all in shades Karl Lagerfeld-style, all pouting and puffed up in their suits waiting to get into the bar next door to the club we have exited. As we stumble drunkenly past, laughing and holding onto one another, the camera focuses behind us as one of the businessmen, in an Armani suit and black fur overcoat, leans out of the queue and raises his sunglasses so that his eyes are visible. He looks in shock, then automatically whips out his iPhone and taps furiously on it. We go on, laughing deliriously as we smoke our cigarettes and totally oblivious to what has just happened. The camera cuts back to the man, who raises the phone to his ear, begins to talk, and slides the sunglasses back down to hide his eyes, puffing on a cigar. Fade out as the screen spins and we wander back into the block of flats where I ran to after quitting my Soviet secretary job.

Some time appears to have passed. Back outside the club, same line of limousines, same pitch-black sky, same drunken revellers falling out of the nightclub. An identical queue of identikit businessmen line the streets waiting for the bar. A limousine pulls up in front of these businessmen, and the door opens as the man in the fur coat from the queue prior steps out. From nowhere, paparazzi and a multitude of flashing lights appear as microphones are thrust towards the door of the limousine. A beat, and then I climb out in skintight black jeans and a leather trenchcoat and dark sunglasses with leather cuffs. I smile dazzlingly for my entourage as minders, having appeared from nowhere, clear a path through the paparazzi for me. Freeze frames as flashing lights illuminate me shielding my eyes, signing an autograph, waving to the surrounding crowd. Behind me, my boyfriend gets out of the car, a serious tight-lipped expression on his face, and he lunges forward and clasps my hand to pull him through the crowd, but I get knocked over and our hands come apart (close-up). Cut to the VIP section, purple velvet ropes cordoning off us from the rest of the club: within the area is a giant plush black leather sofa in front of a table piled with bottles, cocktails, glasses of unidentifiable substances, a smear of white powder. Sat on the sofa is me, my boyfriend (sat apart and not engaging in eye contact) and a heavy-set, stoned-looking bodyguard half-asleep. Businessmen talking into phones mill around while the crowd dances, lights flash and I stare into the distance. I fumble for a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, and I reach over to whisper in my boyfriend’s ear, but as he is about to respond (a smile flickering across his face), one of the businessmen reaches over and shakes my hand and begins to talk.

2nd chorus

You know that I want you (’Cuz I’m a free bitch baby)
And you know that I need you
I want it bad romance
Your bad romance

I want your love and
I want your revenge
You and me could write a bad romance
I want your love and
All your lover’s revenge
You and me could write a bad romance

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh

Caught in a bad romance
Ra ra-ah-ah-ah

Roma roma-ma
GaGa
Oh la-la
Want your bad romance

Exasperated, my boyfriend gets up and stalks out the back of the VIP area; concerned, I brush aside the businessman and go after him. Walking to the smoking area, I fumble to light my cigarette as I walk through a walkway framed on either side by barbed wire. Camera flashes go off continuously, hands clutch excitedly at me through the gaps in the barbed wire; one of them grabs my shoulder and I fall to the ground, dropping my cigarette. I scrabble around on the ground for it and look up. The camera pans up from the ground (my line of sight) and a Gucci shoe trails upwards to a shin, knee, leg. The camera scrolls up to reveal my boyfriend looking down at me. Close-up of his disapproving gaze. I gather myself on the ground, a tear forming in my right eye, and begins to roll down my face – the camera does not pull away. He walks past me as I kneel on the ground, bereft and lost, puffing desperately on my cigarette, and I begin to crumple and cry. Eventually I go to run after him, but I can barely hold myself upright.

Hands clutch through the barbed wire as I start to run, and this time the walkway seems to be interminable. Intercut with footage of me running is a shot of a police car parked stationary; a black police hat, a set smirk on an unidentifiable male face. From nowhere, policemen rush through the walkway at me, the hands retreat and the camera flashes stop. Beating me with truncheons, I crumple once again to the ground, my sunglasses and hair askew, my clothes slightly torn. One of them handcuffs me, and as I lie on the ground, cuffed, hands start to creep back through the wire to grope at me. Fade out.

Bridge part 2

I want your love
And I want your revenge
I want your love
I don’t wanna be friends

A television in the corner of a mystery white room flickers on and off with footage showing “Alan has been arrested” ; “Star meltdown” ; “Dumped and detained!” among other headlines. Close up on my face, clear and almost angelic, mouthing the song lyrics. My eyes are a liquid electric blue, my skin is pale and sunlit. The camera pans out to reveal that I am in a straight jacket in a white, padded room with just a television in one corner, and a fold-out bed / sofa in the other, all white.

3rd Chorus

I want your love and
I want your revenge
You and me could write a bad romance
I want your love and
All your lover’s revenge
You and me could write a bad romance

Caught in a bad romance

Grief-stricken, I throw myself around the padded room, bouncing off walls, pounding the floor, tearing stuffing out of the pillow with my fingernails. The camera retreats further back to show the room with a giant glass window looking in; doctors pace outside tapping pens against clipboards, looking unconcerned and business-as-usual. Tears roll down my face as I sing pleadingly into camera. At the phrase “Caught in a bad romance”, the music stops, and all that can be heard is the sound of my breathing as I look full-face out of the screen. The camera switches to my view, and outside the cell stands my ex-boyfriend, looking in at me. A smile of sympathy plays across his lips, and at the same moment we press our hands together, regretfully, against the glass. A doctor then comes and escorts him away, and I follow his gaze as he is shepherded down the corridor, looking back at me. The camera zooms out further to show that in the two cells either side of mine are the two Soviet big henchmen from the intro office scene, barking Russian into their phones just as they were in the office. The whole scene fades out to white…